


Contrappasso

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Power Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Romance, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Slice of Life, Smut, Tenderness, Top Crowley (Good Omens), quiet and tender, zero percent angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 01:55:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: Snapshots of their life together after they’ve saved the world.





	Contrappasso

Aziraphale wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing.

What time is it? His first instinct is to get up and answer, if nothing else to make the annoying noise stop – it takes him a few seconds to realize he’s weighed down by a body snugged tightly against his own.

He blinks, trying to will his eyelids a little less heavy, runs a hand through his hair – his curls have turned into a veritable bird’s nest. He glances down, and yes – he’s naked, and so is Crowley, and he’s still sleeping very peacefully, unperturbed by the ringing of the phone.

Aziraphale tries to piece back together what happened last night. He remembers a game of chess that slowly devolved into an argument, because Crowley kept saying it was ridiculous they’d play a game that involves black and white pieces, while Aziraphale himself insisted it was just a game, no need to take it so personally – and besides, it was a perfect metaphor, because the pieces were different colours but still fundamentally the same. And there had been alcohol involved – not a lot of it, but enough to make them run their mouths at each other.

And then Crowley had climbed on the armchair Aziraphale was sitting in, straddling him, and _oh_ – suddenly the angel cared no more about chess and metaphors and dumb arguments.

Right. So. That explains why they’re all tangled into each other, naked under a blanket that’s slipped down to bare those delightful dimples Crowley has on his lower back.

The phone keeps ringing, but Aziraphale lets it. Crowley has his head on the angel’s shoulder, an arm across his waist, a leg lodged between his knees, anchoring him, making absolutely sure he can’t get up.

Aziraphale lays a kiss on the top of his head. “I’m not going anywhere.” He says as he reaches down to tug the blanket up to Crowley’s shoulders.

It’s a promise – but it’s not enough. Aziraphale is slowly realizing that, after all they’ve been through, it’s going to take some time for it to sink deep down to their very core that this is real, that this is true, that nobody’s taking it away.

So he lets Crowley sleep on his chest for as long as he likes. And if they waste away the whole morning, so what? They were stolen so much time, he can’t think of a better use of his day than lying here, carding his fingers through the demon’s hair, whispering sweet little reassurances that make Crowley’s lips curl into a smile.

He’ll even pretend he doesn’t know his demon has been awake for at least a couple hours now.

* * *

They never go more than a few hours without touching. Not anymore. If Aziraphale thought they could take their fill and be done with it – he was wrong. So very wrong.

He’s read in a magazine that humans need to be touched seventeen times a day to feel happy. They aren’t human, of course, so does it apply to them? He counts the times they touch.

In the morning, when he wakes up much sooner than Crowley, and rubs circles on his back until his demon decides play nice and let him get to work. When he’s sitting at his desk, and Crowley brings him a cup of tea and tries to slither away before he can be thanked, but Aziraphale just has to pull him down into a kiss. When they’re out for lunch, and Crowley takes possession of his hand and pretends he hasn’t, chatting away and pointedly not looking at their intertwined fingers.

In the afternoon, when the book he needs is very high up and if he was just one inch taller he’d reach it – and Crowley appears behind him and gets it for him. The book ends up on the floor and Aziraphale ends up pressed against the bookshelf, and he doesn’t mind one bit.

In the evening, when the grey London rain patters on the big, dusty windows, and Aziraphale decides that’s a good reason as any to close up the bookshop. They huddle together in the flat upstairs, in front of the television Crowley has brought for him – for _them_, actually – and watch cooking shows. Crowley loves them; he thinks they’re fake as hell and trashy. Aziraphale is just amazed to see the things humans can do with sugar, butter and a little flour, as he himself can’t even manage an omelette. Crowley stretches out, lays his head in Aziraphale’s lap. He tilts his chin up, positions himself to be kissed between the eyes, as Aziraphale has been doing every time the demon uses his thighs as a pillow. Crowley has many ways of asking for affection without saying a thing.

Words are still hard for him. It doesn’t matter. He radiates love with every breath. He finds ways to make his needs known. And if there’s one good thing about a six thousand years long not-quite-courtship, is that they know each other inside and out, and Aziraphale can often anticipate what Crowley will ask – and the other way around. Aziraphale feels, in turns, that they deserved all of this and more, and incredibly thankful that they get to have it now.

At night, when he runs Crowley a bath. He bought him a bath bomb that makes the water look like the night sky, and Crowley stares at the tub wordlessly for a long time before getting in. Aziraphale hands him a glass of wine and sits by him, fingers grazing the hot water, tracing squiggly lines. Crowley teases him that he should have at least got him a rubber duck, and they laugh.

They don’t touch, not quite, but when Crowley’s bare eyes take him in Aziraphale feels calm, full, and centred, in a way he hasn’t in ages.

He idly wonders whether that should count towards those seventeen touches. It feels like it should.

* * *

In those moments, Crowley is gentle. So gentle, he’s almost reverent. It’s almost worship. It’s the touch of a man who can’t believe his luck, although he isn’t really a man and luck belongs to the devil anyway, as Aziraphale likes to say.

He has long, delicate fingers that seem to have been made for this (and maybe they have). To hold, to tease. His fingertips drag across the angel’s chest, bump into a nipple, travel down, down, reach his hipbones, Aziraphale holds his breath – but then they climb up again, sides-chest-shoulders-neck, all the way to his face. He cradles his cheeks in his palms, thumbs brushing against the angel’s soft jawline.

Crowley’s golden eyes shine, the late afternoon light from the window behind Aziraphale hitting him just right, his eyelashes flutter for a moment—

Abruptly, back down – a flick of his tongue against Aziraphale’s cock, the very tip of it, and nothing more. Fingers that run along his inner thighs, leaving blazing paths across his skin. Crowley tilting his head, leaving a kiss along the length of it, lower, lower, at its base, licking his way back up with his tongue pressed flat, and Aziraphale pulses, tenses, leaks, asks, slams his hand down into the mattress. Begs even, when the demon doesn’t budge.

Aziraphale understands – it’s his job, now, to convince Crowley he can go faster. Ironic, isn’t it?

_Contrappasso_: the punishment of a soul by a process either resembling or contrasting with the sin itself, as per Dante’s Inferno.

Oh, but what a sweet punishment this is.

So he does his best – his voice breaking as he tries to convince him he can go harder, his nails gripping the sheets, Crowley’s hair, Crowley’s slender wrist, Crowley’s shoulders, whatever he can reach.

Crowley opens him slowly, so agonizingly slow, sets a rhythm – one-two-_three_ – he hits the spot inside him that makes him see stars on the _three_. One-two-_three_, one-two-_three_, one-two_-three_.

“Crowley, Crowley _please_…” one-two-_three_, one-two-_three_, he floats somewhere between pleasure and frustration, and then Crowley finally joins their bodies, and Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief.

The demon brushes his curls away, kisses his forehead. So tender, so careful, Aziraphale feels his heart splitting in two.

Crowley moves, slowly, gently, searching for the best angle for his angel. Aziraphale loses his patience and breaks apart, _now now now_, bucks his hips upward, grins when Crowley lets out a strangled noise, does it again. He unsheathes a litany of obscenities into the demon’s ear, letting him know in no uncertain terms what he wants, what he needs, and that he’ll have it right fucking now, and finally Crowley comes undone, stops holding back, thrusts in earnest, flips them over, watches transfixed as Aziraphale fucks himself on his cock, keens when Aziraphale hurls himself over the edge and comes all over his chest, sinks his nails into the angel’s thighs as he reaches his orgasm himself, burying himself deep into the angel’s body.

* * *

They spend a day in Tadfield – the weather is nice, the company is lovely, and they don’t find much traffic at all on the way there. They check on Adam on the occasion of his twelfth birthday, using a small miracle to ensure Mr and Mrs Young ‘remember’ that the two strangers at their door – the one in very tight pants and dark glasses, and the one wearing an ensemble that vaguely reminds them of the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland – are Adam’s godparents, and have always been.

All of Adam’s little friends are there, as well as Anathema and her boyfriend. The food is nice enough, and there’s something very satisfying about sitting back with the other adults and watching the kids play, knowing it’s also thanks to them that the world didn’t end.

Still, Crowley throws a minor fit in the car on the drive back, ranting about the fact that the crazy American woman is already living with the man she met only one year ago, during the almost-Apocalypse. It takes Aziraphale a while to figure out what’s up with that – Crowley doesn’t generally care about this kind of stuff much at all.

“They barely know each other! What’s a year? You have tins of biscuits in the backroom that are older than that, and besides—”

“We could do that too, you know.” The angel says, cutting him off. “Live together, I mean.”

Crowley freezes. Aziraphale sees his yellow eyes darting briefly towards him, behind his glasses.

“We couldn’t.” He replies quietly. “There’s no room for me at the bookshop, you’ve already filled every corner. And we can’t live at my place, you would hate being there on a permanent basis.”

Aziraphale notices immediately that’s not an actual _no_. Besides, they’ve been living at the bookshop five days a week, spending the weekends at Crowley’s flat, so it’s not as if they aren’t basically living together anyway.

“We could get our own place,” he proposes, keeping his gaze studiously on the road. “With enough room for both of us. Some place we both like.”

“What about the bookshop?” Crowley asks, voice unnaturally neutral.

“Well, I don’t particularly enjoy having customers.” Aziraphale smiles, turning towards him just for a second. “Maybe a private library would be much more suited to my interests.”

“Are you sure?”

“Crowley—_dearest_. I have wasted so much time denying myself the things I want. I am trying very hard not to do that anymore, now.”

Crowley is quiet for a long time. Aziraphale doesn’t disturb him.

“I’ve never…” The demon begins, once they reach the outskirts of London. “I’ve never lived with anyone before, even when human families were much larger, I couldn’t. I… don’t really know if I can.”

“The same goes for me, of course.” Aziraphale replies, putting his hand over Crowley’s on the gear stick. “I suppose the question is, rather, whether you would be willing to try.”

Another long pause. Crowley swivels the steering wheel one-handed, surpassing a car going too slowly for his tastes.

“Aziraphale,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “I’m going to say something, and you’re not going to reply.”

The angel blinks in surprise, but nods. “All right.”

“Not a word. Nothing at all. Understand?”

“Yes, Crowley, I understand.”

The demon sucks his lips in, lets them go with a smack. He slows down, lets a car merge in his lane. He changes gears, speeds up again. He rolls down the window just a crack, so the car is filled with the whooshing of the wind, making it very hard to hear him once he speaks. Aziraphale doesn’t miss a word anyway.

“Angel,” a muscle in his jaw twitches and he clears his throat, “You’re the only being in this entire bloody universe I would be willing to give it a try with.”

Aziraphale jumps in his seat a bit. “Oh, Crowley—”

“Not a word!” The demon barks at him. “You promised!”

Aziraphale shuts his mouth and settles back down. He’ll keep quiet, that’s fine, but Crowley can’t stop him from smiling at him so hard his cheeks hurt by the time they’re back in Soho. And he can’t stop him from looking at him with all the love in the world, even if the demon stubbornly keeps his eyes on the road – for once. He can’t stop Aziraphale from noticing the tips of his ears are burning red, or how he fiddles nervously with the radio.

He can’t stop him from leaning towards him, resting his head against his shoulder. And, once they reach the bookshop and park, he definitely can’t stop him from lifting his hand to his lips and leaving a kiss on the demon’s knuckles.

“You are so dear to me.” Aziraphale says in a sigh, when he can’t possibly hold back the words any longer.

“Well, I sure hope so.” Crowley replies with a little smirk, “I literally stopped time for you.” He leans closer, gently nipping him on the cheek. “Come on now, that annoying show you like to watch on Channel 4 started ten minutes ago.”

“Dear me,” Aziraphale replies, leaning closer, their noses brushing together. “And here I thought I knew a certain demon who could help with that.”

“Fine, fine.” Crowley snaps his fingers, and he can’t seem to be able to help the genuine smile on his face. “Don’t get used to this.”

“You know, I think I will.” Aziraphale closes his eyes, smiling still as he kisses him softly on the lips. “I really think I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m working on something a lot more complicated, so I wrote this in the meantime to keep myself entertained. because what is an attention span? we just don’t know
> 
> I’m Shy please scream at me about Good Omens so I can scream back, thanks


End file.
